Envy Jealousy - Both

Crocus.

Pussy willow.

Daphne.

A Poem.

Envy

jealousy

both.

What is the colour of it?

Bilious 

acid 

sulphurous 

yellow.

What is the taste of it?

Bitter 

aloes

chilli

fire.

What is the smell of it?

Stinking 

drains.

What is the texture of it?

Slippery

viscous 

slime.

What is the sound of it?

Raucous

shrieking

nail tearing.

What do you see?

Nothing.

Because it is hidden

safe behind

my smile, 

reassuring. 

Tears 

of course.

It's what you do

when you

grieve.

So you suspect 

nothing

else.

When

 it was for

the children 

I craved

I stopped seeing 

mothers

in the street

except 

through the distorting

haze

of envy

and jealousy.

Now it is 

anyone

with 

a 

partner.

A THE ONE.

A living one.

It's not as if 

I don't know 

how 

messy 

and unwieldy 

it is to

live with,

to 

love

THE ONE.

I don't want 

your husbands.

I don't want 

to be

your wives.

I want 

my 

ONE.

My valentine.

Like  I used to have.

Like you who still have.